


you should probably listen to the devil's music

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Delusions, Disordered Eating, Mania, Minor hallucinations, Paranoia, Psychotic Episodes, Psychotic disorders, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Talk of Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: it's been three days and sixteen hours since wilbur last slept. he knows this because every time he takes the clock out of his pocket, half an hour has passed since the last time he checked, and he's been telling himself each time that in half an hour, he'll feel better. and with every half hour that passes, wilbur feels no less horrible than he did before.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77
Collections: Fanfic Anonymous





	you should probably listen to the devil's music

**Author's Note:**

> ive spent too long on this fic im turning into the fucking joker
> 
> ANYWAY. hi. im psychotic. and i like wilbur. and think he's psychotic too. so i wrote about it. c!wilbur shows a LOT of symptoms of mania and paranoia and persecutory delusions so it just made sense to me. he has delusional disorder in this fic as well as symptoms of bipolar disorder, just like me!  
> pls don't comment calling wilbur crazy or insane, it makes me feel bad <3
> 
> title is a lyric from white worms by ajj, a song that bangs but triggers my bug-related delusions :,)

it's been three days and sixteen hours since wilbur last slept. he knows this because every time he takes the clock out of his pocket, half an hour has passed since the last time he checked, and he's been telling himself each time that in half an hour, he'll feel better. and with every half hour that passes, wilbur feels no less horrible than he did before. 

to say it started out slow would be a lie, because it didn't. or maybe it did, and wilbur -- everyone -- was just too distracted by everything else going on to notice. he tries to think back to the days before the election, the days before his exile, but every time he does he finds himself lost. his memories don't feel like memories, they feel more like those realistic paintings of mythological events that almost look like pictures if they didn't lean too far into the uncanny valley. he can't remember what he felt or thought in those moments -- he can only watch as they unfold in his mind, like catching scenes of a movie you're not invested in between picking at your nails and daydreaming. he'd describe it as watching himself from the third person, but that description just doesn't fit quite right. he sees through his own eyes, but he can't think through his own mind, can't feel through his own body. his memories are a blur and don't make any sense when he tries to connect them to what's happening now -- what he thinks is happening now.

wilbur never claimed to be a stable person. he's had his issues ever since he was a child, and they've affected him in their own ways throughout his life. sometimes he'd have outbursts, sometimes he'd spend days lying in bed, sometimes he had to ask his friends if they liked him still. it wasn't the best, but it was manageable to a point where wilbur could get on with life in a relatively normal way. but these issues, these symptoms, were the background of his problems when pogtopia began.

one day, about two weeks into their new living situation, wilbur had taken a few baked potatoes out of their shared chest and put most of them in his shoulder-strap bag for later and taken a few to eat then. without thinking, he took a bite of one and kept it in between his teeth while he situated the space in his bag. he closed the bag, snapping a safety pin on the flap to keep it safely shut, and froze. something wasn't quite right. he carefully took his potato out of his mouth and stared at it, at the batemarks his teeth had left in the soft flesh of it. his teeth tingled in his mouth and when he swiped his tongue across the back of his front teeth, the sensation spread to the tip of his tongue. it wasn't painful or even anything noteworthy, but something about it was wrong. wilbur couldn't describe it even if he tried. every thought train on the tracks in his head screeched to a halt and started to yell at him, to tell him what he already knew -- that something was wrong. he felt his breathing quicken and tried to keep it under wraps, but just couldn't when every cell in his body was screaming 'danger!' he quickly dropped the potato and turned on his heel and started to walk. he began to pace around the cavern they'd remodelled to be somewhat liveable in an attempt to get the adrenaline coursing through his veins to slow, if only for a moment. he didn't understand what was happening but he had to calm down if he wanted to figure it out. 

it was then that a thought popped into his head, a thought so out of the blue and unreasonable, but the only thought he could actually grab on to in the haze of overwhelming fear. he'd been poisoned.

all the trains derailed as wilbur shakily grabbed the end of his scarf, bunched it up in his hands and spit into it. he wiped his tongue and teeth off onto the fabric in hopes of removing that horrible sensation, like pins-and-needles. it worked, if only a little bit, and wilbur continued to furiously scrub at his teeth, having found the first and only solution to this problem he'd found himself facing. when he finally felt as though he had done a satisfactory job (which was five minutes later), he pulled back and took a moment to breathe. he felt the air hit his newly cleaned (though that word is used loosely) teeth and shivered. his hands were shaking, his heart was racing. he tried to think of what had just happened, find any explanation. his brain supplied him helpfully with the words 'panic attack', but it didn't stick as well as it should've. instead, he kept going back to the thought of poison. an assassination attempt. it made sense -- not a lot, but it made some. he was ordered to be killed, surely they'd find any way to do it, right? poisoned potatoes in his own home were an odd tactic, but it would've worked if he hadn't caught it in time. he exhaled heavily, his breath quivering, and took a moment to be grateful he noticed it. it wasn't a perfect explanation, he knew that, but it was the one he clinged onto best.

as he went about his day after that, he couldn't stop thinking about the potatoes in his bag, wondering if they could be poisoned too.

it was the first time it had been bad enough to cause a physical reaction from wilbur. he'd had thoughts like this before, thoughts that he was in danger triggered by the smallest of reasons, but they'd always been fairly understandable. things like cave sounds being mistaken for someone coming down the steps into the cavern, someone dangerous who was there to uproot this whole scheme from the source. people being gone for longer than they were supposed to be and wilbur immediately assuming the worst had happened. but he'd never considered someone within their ranks would try to get them killed. but the thought had entered his head and it refused to leave.

from that day forward, it started to get out of hand, and the longer it went on, the worse it got. first, he wouldn't eat the food that was given to him unless he'd seen it being prepared. if he saw it being baked, saw all the hands that had touched it, he'd see if anyone tried to tamper with it. this worked out for a while, but then it progressed to him having to watch the food be harvested. he'd realized after a week or two that it was entirely possible for someone to do something to his food before it was actually baked and readied for being served. he tried to rationalize the thought, considering how since nothing had happened yet, nobody would bother to go so far just to hurt him so late into everything. but it didn't work, and every time he looked at something he hadn't seen taken out of the earth, he felt like he was going to be sick. and then it got to the point he stopped eating because he had one thought about soil being contaminated, and now he couldn't even think about eating the food in pogtopia without starting to panic.

it didn't make sense, he knew it didn't. nobody would go through so much trouble, but every time he thought about it, the thoughts of it being real were louder than the thoughts of it being fake. he knew he was wrong but couldn't shake the feeling that he was right. and if he was right, all of the effort he put in to avoid getting hurt would work out in the end.

so he stopped eating the food in pogtopia, and only ate the old leftovers in the very bottom of his personal belongings chest. it wasn't enjoyable, nor healthy by any means, but it was the only way he could eat. he had to ration out his supply after a few days of not realizing how little he actually had, but it was fine. it would stop him from getting hurt, his brain told him, and he didn't want to get hurt. he would just excuse himself from every meal, saying that he wasn't hungry and would eat later. it was technically the truth. he originally kept showing up to the dinners, not wanting to worry anyone, but he eventually had to stop watching everyone else eat too, because every time he saw someone bite into the food, he could only think that he had left them to die by not telling them what he knew. they never died, of course, but he couldn't shake the thought that one day they would because he was too scared of being thought of weirdly to warn them.

a few weeks of this passed before tommy decided to hold a bit of an intervention. tommy cornered wilbur in his room and told him that he knew he wasn't eating, that even if he was, it wasn't enough. wilbur didn't know how to explain to him, and kept up his lie of not being hungry. it started to become a lie after a while, because he was running out of his rations and every day he seemed lighter than the last. tommy saw right through it, telling him that his stomach was louder than his words. he left for a moment and returned with a baked potato, shoving it into wilbur's hands and demanding he ate it. wilbur froze. he stared at the potato and it felt heavy in his hand, spreading that same tingling sensation through his gloves and into his palms. he thanked tommy for his concern and said he'd eat it in a moment, but tommy refused to leave until his saw wilbur eat the entire thing. wilbur couldn't blame the boy, he was just scared for him, but in that moment, he felt like a trapped animal. nothing he said would get tommy to even budge from where he stood.

wilbur forced himself to vomit not soon after tommy left, and clawed at the skin of his hand until it was shredded and raw. 

every time dinner came around, tommy would come to wilbur's room and stand in his doorway until he finally came out to dinner, and wouldn't leave the table until he saw him eat a full meal. he knew tommy saw himself as a help, but wilbur saw him as a threat. as much as he hated to think it and it made no sense to him, his brain was flooded with thoughts of tommy, tampering with the food supply, doing something to the soil the food grew in, watching wilbur as he struggled to breathe when the poison finally set in. he didn't want to believe it, he loved tommy like a brother, and knew tommy would never intentionally try to seriously harm him -- but he still did. he was forcing wilbur to eat, to bite a forbidden apple that would change the fate of pogtopia and l'manberg forever. he was, to put it lightly, betraying him.

wilbur combated this new development as best he could. he made himself throw up after every meal and when he got too hungry to move he found his own supply of food to keep him sated. he also avoided tommy to the best of his abilities. he'd make excuses when tommy wanted to talk, would pretend to be busy if tommy wanted to talk, would stay silent and distant during their missions together. he'd even yell when tommy got too close or tried to push past his defenses, yell at him to stop being so clingy and to just leave him alone. it made tommy sad, he knew it did, could see it on his face, but it made wilbur sad too. he just needed to be safe. even if it meant pushing the people he loved away.

he hated the way this paranoia was affecting him.

but the problem expanded when tommy stopped being the only one he was suspicious of. once tommy made it on to the list, so did everybody else. everything someone did that felt somehow out of character was a sign that wilbur could not trust them. it didn't even have to be abnormal for the person -- if a citizen of pogtopia who often made too much food to keep to herself offered him extras, she was a suspect. he avoided everyone, spent as much time as he could in his room, planning out strategies and listening closely to the sounds in the cave for any signs of danger. but the longer he spent in his room, the worse it got. being alone was never something wilbur liked, but he had to be alone or else something bad was going to happen, he could just feel it in his bones. he stayed up late into the night listening and keeping an eye out, peeking out the doorway every five minutes to make sure nobody was coming towards his room. eventually, he stopped sleeping for more than an hour, not wanting to be vulnerable, even if it cost him his health (and sanity).

wilbur has been awake for three days, sixteen hours and thirty minutes. he puts his clock back into his pocket and wraps his arms around his knees, staring at the doorway. he thinks he could sleep standing up if he tried. before pogtopia, he'd never be able to fall asleep if he wasn't laying in a bed. he picks at the loose thread in the holes of his jeans and sighs. he wants to sleep, he really does, but whenever he closes his eyes and they stay closed longer than he wants them to, alarm bells go off in his head, telling him that he needs to be awake, he can't look out for the danger if he's not awake. he wanted to sleep, but he was so, so, so afraid. and the thing is, he doesn't even really know what he's afraid of. his mind isn't racing with thoughts, his brain isn't providing him with scary stories to tell in the dark and keep him up, but it's providing him with that right mix of chemicals that tell him he should be running as fast as he can in the other direction. he doesn't know what to be afraid of, he just knows that he's afraid and has to quell that fear however he can.

he scratches at his knee. it leaves a tingling feeling that doesn't go away, so he scratches at it again. the feeling persists. he buries his face into his hands. takes one hand away to scratch again. a groan turns into a yell as he furiously rakes his nails over his skin, digging in even if it hurts. he wishes it wasn't painful -- if he couldn't feel pain, he could so easily scrape whatever has contaminated his skin off and finally be safe from it, but he can't, because he's human and humans feel pain and fear and rage like the rage building up in his chest as he bites into his sleeve to prevent himself from screamin bloody murder--

"hey," a voice calls from the doorway. wilbur fully yelps and jumps where he's sitting, surprised he was so easily caught off guard, and very very scared at the idea that he could be at all. he looks towards the doorway and familiar yellow eyes meet his. he sighs, not fully with relief, when he finally registers who it is. he gives techno a forced smile and goes back to twirling the denim threads between his fingers. he notices the angry red marks on his knee and shivers. "tommy wanted me to check in on you." techno says simply in the same monotone as always. 

"of course he did," wilbur mutters, picking another seam loose. "well, you've checked." 

he hopes techno will leave it there, but he knows techno, and knows that it's not that easy to get rid of him if he's determined. and looking back up at his face, he can tell he is.

"not fully," he says. he walks into the room, leaving the door open behind him, and wilbur isn't sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. seven different scenarios pop into his mind all at once and go by so fast he isn't sure what the conclusion to them is supposed to be. he can't tell if he wants the door open or not. either way, techno sits down on the floor at the end of wilbur's cot, gently readjusting his cape as he does so. a minute passes where the two are just staring at each other, waiting for the other to start talking. thank the gods, techno goes first. "you haven't been out of your room much lately." 

wilbur shakes his head and pulls the small notebook out of the pocket on the inside of his coat. "been making plans," he says. he's grateful when techno just nods, not reaching out or asking to see the book. wilbur would never get the remnants of touch out of the hardcovers.

techno gets right to the point. "tommy's worried about you," he states, like wilbur doesn't already know. "worried he did something wrong, too. you're not a very subtle person, y'know." wilbur just nods, tucking the notebook back. a moment passes. "i'm worried about you, too." it's genuine, even if it doesn't sound it. he only knows because he's spent so long with the guy, and knows when he's serious and when he isn't. but something tells him it's not serious, that he's lying just to get close enough to him to strike -- wilbur wants to scream.

instead, he responds calmly. "you don't have to be. nothing's wrong--"

"don't lie to me." techno interrupts. wilbur startles and looks up to him, seeing the deathly serious look in his eyes. he swallows hard. "you smell like blood and vomit and you haven't left your room for anything but dinner, so it can't be anyone's but your own." wilbur pauses and awkwardly sniffs at his sleeve, and recoils when he realizes it's true. he's almost glad techno didn't mention the sweat, but he's still embarrassed about it either way. he hasn't taken the coat off in so long, hasn't changed his clothes. he doesn't want to leave his room, doesn't want to be uncovered, doesn't want to be vulnerable. he sighs and buries his face in his hands. techno sighs as well. "look man, i'm not here to force you to do anything or even make you get up. i'm just here to tell you to take better care of yourself, because it's gettin' concerning. how do you expect to lead a revolution like this?"

"i've been planning!" wilbur counters, taking his hands away. "i've spent this whole time figuring out strategies and-and plots and what to do next, i haven't just been doing nothing!" he pulls the notebook out again, waving it around for emphasis, as if it'll prove his point. "i've been coming up with all these ideas and plans on how to take them down!"

techno blatantly ignores what he said, instead just asking, "but have you taken a bath?" 

he sighs. "...no." he drops the notebook to the floor, watching a piece of loose parchment from it slip out just a tad. 

"well, then the first thing you need to do once i leave is that." techno pauses, looking wilbur up and down. he shudders, wondering if he's just looking or if he's scanning him for-- something. some kind of weakness. something he can use against him. "actually, scratch that. first thing you need to do is have an actual meal." he stands, grunting as he goes and cracks his neck with a gross snap noise. "i'll go pickup some leftovers from earlier--"

"no, techno, you don't have to, i-i--" wilbur pauses to think for an excuse. techno raises an eyebrow at him. "i'll get it myself, you don't have to do anything."

"well i want to," he says, shrugging before heading to the door. "i'll be right back." 

and before wilbur can continue his argument, the door is shut behind techno and his footsteps quickly fade into the distance. "fuck," he whispers, before raising his voice, "fuck!" he drags his hands down the sides of his face, groaning. 

he's done this whole charade once, why does he have to do it twice? and techno's persistent, he's not just going to leave once wilbur's done eating to leave him to vomit into the chest hidden behind a chunk of cobblestone. no, he's going to linger for a while longer. he tries to calm himself down and think of a solution, fast. obviously he could just do what he always does, wait until techno's gone to do his business, but the longer he goes with that poison in his system, the more likely it's going to kill him. he needs to get it out as soon as possible. maybe-- maybe that's techno's exact plan. he's already caught on far enough, maybe he's going to use what he already knows to force wilbur right into a trap that only ends with him being taken out.

he shakes his head and smacks the heel of his palm into his forehead. focus, focus. he could just force techno to leave early. except techno isn't really receptive to pressure, not from him. years of petty arguments and shouting matches prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt. and if he tried to make it physical, things would just spiral from there. techno had the upper hand on him -- he was shorter but he was so much stronger than him. the knife he kept in the space between his cot and the wall wasn't going to help him against an expert. the best option would be to just not eat whatever he's brought, maybe leave before techno gets back.

wilbur takes a moment to breathe and pushes himself up onto shaky legs. he sways for a moment, his vision covered by a wave of static. when it finally passes, he groans to himself and adjusts his coat. he shoves his hands into his pockets and walks over to the door, trying to be gentle as he pushes it open, but his haste counteracts the care. he looks down the hallway to make sure nobody is in his way and makes his way down the hall, shoulders hunched in anxiety. keeping quiet is not an easy task, but in the silence of the cavern where the lanterns are dimmed and the rising moon shines through the cracks in the ceiling, he thinks he can get away with not being as stealthy as can be. even as his scuffed and torn boots catch on rocks jutting out from the walls, making him stumble. he curses under his breath as he steadies himself and turns the corner to get to the man staircase leading out.

it's as he makes it halfway up the stairs crudely carved out of stone that techno's voice cuts through the silence like his battleaxe through flesh. 

"where are you going." it's not a question.

wilbur grits his teeth, refusing to look at him. "out." he takes another step up the staircase, but freezes when he hears techno huff through his snout. it's an intimidating sound, one he only makes when he's fed up. he slowly turns his head and sees techno glaring at him with a deadly look in his eyes. he shivers. maybe, maybe if he runs, techno will give up on him and just wait for him to come back. or maybe techno will just kill him here, get it over with without any secrecy. he has to hold back a whimper at that.

techno sighs, setting a napkin in his hand wilbur hadn't noticed before on a nearby stone before crossing his arms. the two just stare at each other for a long moment until techno raises a hand and makes a gesture for wilbur to come down. wilbur just shakes his head. techno's eyes roll and he walks over to the staircase himself. wilbur screws his eyelids together and listens to the sound of hooves clopping against stone, waiting for some kind of strike to hit him, waiting for that burst of pain and the warmth of blood pouring out of his body. when it doesn't come, he slowly opens one, and then the other in surprise when he sees techno just sitting there, legs dangling off the edge of the staircase. he gently taps the space next to him, and wilbur quietly sinks down to sit, leaning against the wall and pressing his knees against his chest. he feels how heavy his breathing is in that moment as his chest rapidly expands and deflates against his legs. he takes a moment to steady his breathing, trying to focus on counting each breath instead of the fears racing through his mind.

it feels like an hour passes before techno finally breaks the silence again. "talk to me, wilbur." he doesn't look up from where he stares at the ground below. wilbur exhales shakily and buries his face into his knees.

"what do you want me to say?" he asks, voice muffled against his jeans. 

techno shrugs. "just an explanation. tell me what's going on with you." 

"nothing's going on."

"this sounds familiar."

"fuck off." the words hold no venom. techno huffs a laugh at them, shaking his head. wilbur sits back up straight, staring up at the crumbling ceiling. "why do you even care?" he nearly hisses. if he was planning to take him out, this was a very strange way of going about it. wilbur wants to take that as a reason to feel safe, but the logic is slippery in his hands and slides away when he grips it tight. he pulls his legs a bit closer.

techno doesn't answer. "i'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

"then we'll be here forever!" wilbur exclaims, throwing his hand up in frustration before letting it drop heavy into his lap. "just fuck off, okay?"

"no can do," techno leans forward, resting his chin in his hands and his elbows against his knees. "told tommy i'd tell him when i was done talking to you, so if you don't start talkin' to me, you're gonna have to talk to him." it's a threat, wilbur knows it is. he hates showing weakness, vulnerability, and he hates it especially in front of tommy. he's supposed to be the strong older brother figure he needs -- even if tommy thinks he's gone fucking insane (which he can't even blame him for), he still looks up to him. he can see it in his eyes. it hurts. it hurts a lot. wilbur groans and slams his head against the wall behind him. techno immediately slaps him in the shoulder, muttering a 'stop it.'

"how do i know i can trust you?" wilbur asks. he keeps his eyes trained forward, staring at the opposite wall. he doesn't want to see techno's face after asking such a question. he knows it's a stupid question, he's been beating himself up for asking himself it for the past few weeks, but he needs to know. he needs an answer.

a long moment passes, techno tilting his head as he stared off into the distance, obviously thinking very hard on the answer. “you don’t,” he finally responds.

he groans. “terrific,” wilbur grinds out with heavy sarcasm.

“i know.” techno smiles. “but, hey, you’ve known me all these years. you can probably guess how i’ll react anyways. trust ain’t exactly the thing i’m looking for here.”

that’s… fair. wilbur doesn’t really trust anyone right now, but the difference between trusting someone and being able to talk to them does exist. he doesn’t trust techno, he’s not going to lie to himself, but if he takes a moment he can assess the situation. he can make it safe for him, as best he can with the company he’s in. his eyes drift to the scabbard on techno’s hip. the sword within shimmers.

“toss your sword for me?” he asks. techno doesn’t even hesitate, just takes the sword out of its holster and tosses it into the ravine below. it clangs against the stone loud and painfully. “i didn’t mean actually toss it, techno.” 

techno shrugs. “don’t be vague.”

wilbur rolls his eyes. it occurs to him that the silence hanging over them is a pause, a wait. techno’s waiting for him to say something next. waiting for an explanation. this is the worst part. he has to think, put those thoughts into words and then say them properly and hope to god he makes sense. he doesn’t think he can rely on himself to do all that. but techno is waiting and his fingers are tapping on the stone in what’s probably impatience.

he could lie, of course, but techno’s good at seeing through people. he figured out wilbur was getting bad earlier -- well, to be fair, it was pretty obvious now that he thinks back on it. he chewed on the inside of his cheek. the full truth isn’t necessary, is it? just enough to get the point across and get techno to leave him alone.

“i… don’t feel safe,” he starts. he expects techno to interrupt him with some joking remark (“yeah, obviously,”) but he doesn’t say anything. he dares a glance in his direction and sees techno just watching him, waiting. it’s kind of creepy. he continues. “just-- so much has happened, and i’ve made so many enemies, and i-i know they’re out to get me. i just can’t stop thinking about it and worrying about it. i feel like i’m gonna get hurt any second now.”

techno nods. “are you scared of us?”

wilbur swallows. he feels sick again. “i--… i am.” 

it’s scary to spill that kind of thing, but at the same time, it’s nice to get all of that off his chest. there’s still thoughts and fears weighing down his chest that make it hard to breathe, but he can get more air in than he could before. even then, the fear of judgement and being called crazy is working its way into his throat and choking him. techno takes too long to respond, but when he does--

“...sounds like it sucks.”

wilbur actually laughs. it’s the first time in a long time “understatement of the century, man.” techno huffs a laugh and elbows him in the side. it’s comforting, familiar, brotherly. he feels a little better, and the words come easier. “y-yeah, it’s not been fun. i’m just… constantly worried somebody here is gonna turn around and betray us.” he doesn’t say ‘me’, because it feels selfish, despite this being his problem. even then, if he dies, the resistance doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? he has nothing to accomplish then.

techno hums. “so what’s with the food thing, then?” he asks. “i don’t really see what not eating is gonna accomplish in protectin’ ya.”

fuck technoblade for remembering that bit. why did his selective memory always work against wilbur?

“uhm.” that’s harder to explain in a way that sounds normal. wilbur takes a minute to compose himself. he’s itchy again. scratches at his chin. his stubble’s gotten out of hand. scratches a little harder. “i, uh, i’m scared somebody’s trying to-- uhm. poison me.” he manages to stutter out. it’s a bit harder to breathe again.

and worst of all, techno is taking his sweet time responding. so wilbur does what he does best -- makes things worse.

“i-it’s stupid, i know, but i’m, like, certain that all my meals have been messed with somehow, even if i know they haven’t been, i’ve tried watching them be made but it does nothing to-to, like, quell the fear. i-i’m just freaking out over it all the time and i can’t--”

techno stands up. fear shoots through wilbur like a strike of lightning and he freezes, nails digging into the stone and skin they rest against. he doesn’t dare look up.

“c’mon,” techno says, gesturing at wilbur vaguely. “stand up.” 

wilbur shakily rises to his feet, keeping his eyes to the floor. techno starts to walk up the rest of the stone staircase, beckoning for wilbur to follow. he has to steady himself against the wall as he does, not wanting to fall off (why'd he remove those railings?). techno takes him out into the forest and the two walk in silence for a good few minutes. it’s reminiscent of childhood memories of the two exploring the woods late at night when they shouldn't have been. 

eventually they come to a stop and techno turns to wilbur and hands him a hoe from his bag. wilbur just blinks at him.

"i'm gonna teach you to farm," he says simply. "i'm not gonna make you eat food you think is contaminated or whatever. but you still have to eat food. so. make it yourself."

wilbur blinks again. he… never thought of that. he watches as techno pulls some seeds and spuds from his bag as he realizes that this is almost exactly what he needs. techno's right. if he can't eat food from someone else, he can just make it himself. he almost feels stupid for not thinking of it sooner, but then techno begins to explain the basics and the self loathing quells. he learns how to farm.

to say it got better would be a lie, because it's never that easy. wilbur is still manic and paranoid and probably in the midst of a breakdown. but he's back to eating like normal again. back to talking with tommy. and techno is there to help him when he needs it. techno doesn't judge him when he says that his hands are unclean or that he can't stop thinking about buttons. he instead listens to him and helps him find a way to deal with it that won't hurt him or anyone else. and it gets easier. not better, but easier. and that's really all he needs at that moment.


End file.
